


don't ever think about it

by wheres-mickey (peijou)



Series: Bedtime Stories [3]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, idk really, lots of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 14:54:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4141956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peijou/pseuds/wheres-mickey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>when they kiss, it's a contest to know who will resist the longest--it's a risky game where they have to drop their guard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the contest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's a fight, and they're both winners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly, it's almost 3am and it's trash and they're 300% ooc but I can't even bring myself to care. they kiss, like, in every single paragraph. it's been a while since I've written something in english so I feel a bit rusty... hope it's still fine!

They kiss like it's a contest to know who will resist the teasing the longer.

They pull away and eyes fall on mouths and mouths smile and eyes stare back up at eyes while mouths get closer and the circle only repeats itself, pulling and following and smiling and trying, slow and tricky, but waiting is fine because Ian knows that in the end, he'll have Mickey's lips pressed against his own, and literally anything, for this, is worth the wait. It's also worth the wait because Mickey enjoys this as much as he does—not that he ever vocalized it—never would—but Ian knows. He knows because of the way his eyes flicker between his lips and eyes, expectant, wetting his lips in anticipation, how they part when he's about to get kissed, and how he closes his eyes, his long eyelashes practically brushing against Ian's cheeks, when their lips are finally joined.

And it's a contest again, defining who's going to get the upper hand. It's a fight. It's Ian kissing Mickey and then it's Mickey kissing Ian, but mostly Ian kisses Mickey because Mickey likes it when he's being kissed—another thing he'd never admit. Ian likes kissing Mickey too much to even think about making a joke out of it anyway. It's a fight, and they're both winners.

They never talk about it afterwards. There isn't much to talk about, is there? It's just Mickey and Ian, kissing each other, savoring each other's tastes and touches while no one else's here, while they can pretend they're the only two people left in the whole universe. Alone is the only moment when they can be honest with each other. They understand each other, then. And there's nothing left to say.

Once their lips finally meet, it never lasts too long. First it's the neck, then the shoulders and then the waist, and Ian knows the pattern by heart but it still never fails to give him goose bumps when Mickey starts to slide his hands along his body.

Unless they're really in a hurry, they don't stop kissing, even as they undress. There's something hot, possessive, in the way Mickey holds him against him, starts biting at his mouth, that says _don't ever think about giving this to anyone else_ , desperate almost. Ian doesn't want anyone else to see the Mickey he's got when it's just the two of them either. Mickey's _his_.

So he kisses back. Sometimes he takes their clothes off slowly, sometimes he almost tears them apart because he needs Mickey, physically _needs_ him, he needs him now and then and he's not sure he will survive any longer without him in his arms. But not right now. Right now, Ian wants to take his time, he wants to show Mickey how much these moments mean to him.

They never say it. The touching does the talking. They rarely have the time, but when they do, Ian always tries to provide Mickey with all the sensations he can. It's raw then gentle, and raw again, he nips marks all over his skin and kisses the ones he just left and when he's got Mickey's hands fisted in his hair he knows he's doing good, just like when he hears him swear, low and breathy, in his ear. So he does it again.

He learned where Mickey's body reacted most. It's hard to explain, but he just wants Mickey's body to _give up_ to the sensations, to let them fill him with their strength and power. Kiss him. Fuck him. Leave marks where no one else can. No one else can touch him like that. Make him feel like that. It's just him, and Ian.

Mickey's _his_.

_Don't ever think about giving this to anyone else._

Ian knows he doesn't deserve him. For so many reasons. Mickey, though, doesn't give a fuck—never has. He gives Ian everything he has to offer and that's so much more than Ian could ever hypothetically ask for.

Mickey urges him back up for a kiss. Ian complies. Tongues fight each other while sweat dampens the sheets under them and makes their bodies slippy, it's all gross and lewd, but when they part Mickey's smiling shakily, and he's got a light in his eyes, a light that's like a sparkle, a light that's so beautiful it makes Ian's heart sink.

The first push is always the most intense. They're finally joined, they're _one_ , and every single time, it amazes Ian to see how badly Mickey seems to have longed for it, his body arching up against Ian's and his eyes pleading him. The next ones are important, too, because they loosen his tongue and get him to say the hottest, most beautiful things, his raspy voice down to a broken whisper. Their lips still touch but only for the sake of it, really; they're too busy putting their hands on each other to do anything about it. They breathe the same air anyway, they share the same space, they aim at the same goal.

Mickey's hand slides down Ian's nape, his neck arches up against the mattress; he tenses up. He's so close he gives up on breathing. Ian hopes he's doing an alright job for the both of them. He nibbles at his jaw and keeps on pounding into him, rough and tender at the same time because love does that weird thing, that gives you the power to mix totally different feelings to express the mess that you've become because of it.

They kiss like it's a contest to know who's going to fall apart last. It's a lost cause because they've already fallen for each other long ago, and god, do they not know it.

Mickey comes with Ian's name on his lips. When he reaches his own climax, seconds later, Ian presses his face against the curve of Mickey's neck to muffle his groan—if he's being honest, it mostly gave him the time to blink back the burn at the corner of his eyes, that somehow threatened to roll down. He feels Mickey's hands soothing him, a comforting caress along his thighs, as they both come down from cloud nine.

Only their shaky breaths disturb the ringing silence now. Lying in an intertwined mess into the torn sheets, they can't seem to keep their hands off of each other just yet. Lips collide together again, slowly, delicately even. Heat against heat, curled up against each other. There isn't much to talk about, though, is there? They're touching. Touching is enough. They always understood each other best that way. They know what they feel without _having_ to say it.

Talking doesn't feel like a burden, though, Ian realizes, and it hits him like a train wreck. Not anymore.

And, as Ian learns that day, there's nothing better than to hear from the boy you love that he loves you, too.


	2. the game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and it's mickey's stomach, mickey's whole fucking universe, that's flipped upside down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember how that works? past midnight, no chill and kisses everywhere. hope you enjoy, and sorry for all the mistakes/typos

A feeling of safety, of fucking comfort and reassurance, curls in Mickey's stomach whenever Ian gets within touching distance. Ian means home. There's this need to touch him, this urge to _feel_ him that Mickey can't quite explain, but realizes he's been craving every time they finally get to spend some alone time together.

When Mickey reaches a hand over to catch a strand of red hair between his fingers, Ian ducks it. He tilts his head, expectant, and suddenly, it becomes all clear in Mickey's mind what this is about. He knows exactly what he's expected to do. He doesn't know when they started understanding each other without talking, but of course Mickey doesn't give it a second thought; Ian wants to play. And although he wouldn't say his redhead's every fucking needs and wants generate an urge for some of his own itches to be scratched, he would not _not_ say it, 'cause let's be real, the truth ain't quite far from that either.

A look, and an unspoken agreement is shared. _Jesus._ Won't those dark blue-green eyes be the end of him.

Ian likes the control. His hands ghost over Mickey's shoulders, his neck bends and he breathes right against his ear, low and warm, their hands brushing against each other lightly. Ian's a teasing prick. Mickey would like to pretend he hates it but, god, he's far too gone for that. Mickey just follows the lead, like a dumb boy in love that the red fire dancing in front of him hypnotizes, a fire he vainly tries to get a hold on.

Ian comes closer, and it's Mickey's stomach, Mickey's whole fucking universe, that's flipped upside down. Mickey likes it when Ian takes control. Like, really. Anticipation courses through his veins. The only sound in the room, in the goddamn world, is his and Ian's breathing, palpable--and he can tell they're hitched.

Ian's lips are right in front of his fucking face, parted, and Mickey thinks maybe this game might the only one he's willing to lose. He leans over and there's this brief, charged moment just before their lips meet, keyed up, a sweet burn than sends shivers up to the tip of Mickey's eyelashes. One last look at Ian's eyes and he's gone, too gone to pull away.

Fulfilled. It should be mortifying, but that's how Mickey feels when they're pressed together like that. And he's okay with it. A few heated kisses along his collarbone, even the zero distance becomes unbearable too and they start touching each other's faces, eager, each other's clothes to rip them off because they want to prove once again something they already know.

Pinned against the mattress, with Ian sliding between his tights, Mickey feels himself go weak. He reaches for Ian's neck to steady himself, but before he knows it, and he never consciously understand just _how_ that always happens, he's grabbing onto Ian's hips, burying his head in the neck above him, the scent of that body wash that's labelled as _Ian's _and sweat mixing together in his nostrils, holding on dear life.__

He misses the contact of their lips almost immediately, which is really fucking stupid because he can still taste Ian's sour drink in his mouth. As Ian's busy touching, kissing, humming every part of Mickey's body he can reach, Mickey feels himself get fucking emotional for no goddamn reason, seeing how carefully Ian handles him, in case he wears wounds that might reopen, and just in general, with _respect_. He tries to shut it all down, catching Ian's lips between his own, biting and nibbling there until he's sure there'll be a mark there in the morning. Ian's _his_.

Ian seems to get the message, because he's holding Mickey's tighter now. The touching burns, like electricity. But it is comforting. Because it's shared. The game is back on, only this time the one who kisses the toughest wins. Ian's lips are so soft, his skin feels so nice against his own, all over his own, that Mickey doesn't mind losing, again. He lets himself be kissed. They break free, refilling their empty lungs with some air, and only when he sees something shift in Ian's eyes does Mickey realize he's been smiling. He's happy. He doesn't care that it shows. A smile tugs at Ian's lips too, shaky and unsure, and Mickey feels like he's not a complete loser that night after all.

Ian reaches between them, and soon Mickey feels him breaching the last frontier that separates them. It's all a blur at this point. He clutching at the back of Ian's neck, his other hand a fist in his hair, then Ian's looking at him, sweaty, beautiful, above him, his eyes shining like he's looking at a damn supernova, and Mickey's not entirely sure anymore whether he's only thinking about or flat out saying how fucking good-looking Ian is, how fucking _good_ he makes him feel.

They kiss again, sloppy and messy. They touch.

Mickey feels so close he forgets how to breathe. He's not sure whether Ian actually ever registers, but when he sees Mickey's about to loose it, he talks to him, like _really_ talks to him. It's not dirty talk, it's all _you're almost there Mickey, that's it just let it go, you've been doing so great, you deserve it—let it go, just let it go_ , rubbing a hand over his stomach soothingly, it's sweet and it sets Mickey's heart on fire; he falls over the edge within seconds.

He can't tell when exactly Ian followed him, but when the thundering in his chest eases off, Ian's laying on top of him, crumpled in a heap. He runs a hand over his thighs, lightly. Broken breaths escape their throats as Ian leans in for yet another kiss Mickey's not in a position to refuse.

And it's happening.

Mickey sees it in those blown out eyes, staring at him with hesitation, guilt, and he _knows_ this, this is fucking _happening_ , but Ian breaks eye-contact and Mickey dreads that the moment is gone—he dreads like he never thought he would. But he hears it. "I love you, Mickey." It's just a whisper above him, between their lips, but then their eyes meet and Mickey knows he didn't make that up. "Like really, really love you," Ian shakes his head, eyes suddenly wet, "'M so sorry, Mick, so fucking sorry."

"Not as much as I am." Ian's face crumbles and Mickey huffs out a laugh. He pushes his shoulders up against the mattress and their noses bump, his thumbs rubbing Ian's cheeks dry, while the municipal brass band can't seem to shut the fuck up in his heart. "Cause, y'know, that means a lifelong of suffering, us together. And it's dumb, but I'm down for that," his voice sounds hoarse, "'cause, you know, love is dumb, and I'm dumb, and I love your dumb ass too. Like, _really_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> suddenly felt like doing a mickey pov for this one-shot... i'm not sure how that turned out, but then again, i don't really know how the first one turned out either. i poured feelings on the floor and tried to make a story out of it. sorry again for the mistakes, didn't have time to proofread. thanks for reading, mates! [come prompt me!](http://wheres-mickey.tumblr.com/ask)


End file.
